


Respite

by Trobadora



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, M/M, The Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short respite during the year-that-never-was on the <i>Valiant</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> For [plaid_slytherin](http://plaid-slytherin.livejournal.com/).

"See you soon, Doctor! I'll send you a postcard," the Master promises before he departs with an extravagantly cheerful wave.

The Doctor stares after him, sitting stiffly in his wheelchair, his aged body almost trembling under the twin strains of fury and despair. But he shows no reaction, says nothing as a soldier wheels him around and down the corridor while a group of Toclafane hover nearby, the sound of blades accompanying every movement. Playful death. What a thing.

The Master's beginning to get bored with his own creation, it seems. Bored with torturing and humiliating the Doctor, bored with killing his friends. So now he's decided to take a tour, down on the planet he decimated and ravaged and enslaved. And the Doctor is stowed away in a bare prison cell, little more than bars and a camp bed. Set aside, waiting. Waiting for the Master to return, for the games to resume.

He's more than tired himself.

For the longest time he simply sits there, hunched in his wheelchair, trying to find some rest. His mind is growing numb, but his body is aching. Every muscle is aching. Well, forced ageing isn't good for you. Something to keep in mind, he thinks, absurdly.

 _Could have been worse_ , he reminds himself. Could have been the Tissue Compression Eliminator. Could have been Jack instead of him, who might have been condemned to remain that age forever. The Master could have managed that with his little gadget, no doubt. (Really, a _laser_ screwdriver? How silly. Had nothing on his sonic!) Could have been Francine or Tish, who would have died - if not right away, then soon enough. All in all, not that bad, right? Right.

It rings hollow even to himself.

He sits and watches the empty corridor through the bars, listens to the Toclafane sweeping through the _Valiant_. One is hovering outside the bars of his prison even now, its chirping a constant grate on the Doctor's nerves.

He sits, and nothing happens. He sits and waits. Perhaps, finally, in his old age - artificial though it may be - he's learning patience after all. _Perhaps._

Eventually, he hears the sound of feet coming around the corner. He lifts his head slowly. He doesn't really care; it doesn't really matter. Little matters, now, when all there is to do is wait. Then the cell door opens, and two soldiers toss a dirty human form to the floor in front of him. Before the Doctor's managed to rouse himself completely, they're out again and the door has closed. One of the soldiers turns back briefly and winks.

Some of the soldiers are still on their side, much as they don't have a choice but to co-operate with the Master's every demand. No one really has a choice, now.

The Doctor manages to get his muscles to co-operate enough to move his wheelchair closer and looks down at the man on the floor. _Jack._ Dirty, bloodied, half-conscious - and the best thing he's seen since this started.

Ah. And already he's giving the lie to himself. Of course he does still care.

Jack eventually rouses himself enough to offer the Doctor his trademark grin, half amusement, half flirtation. Even now, the man's flirting. The Doctor would be annoyed if it weren't so comforting. Jack is himself. Unbroken.

Jack pulls himself up - the damage is mostly healed already, it seems - and moves to the Doctor's side. "You okay?"

The Doctor grimaces, wearily. "Look at me."

The smile Jack gives him is searing in its tenderness. "Good to see you, Doc."

"Can't imagine this is what anyone'd want to see."

"Oh, I don't know," Jack says and gives him a deliberate once-over. "You. The Doctor. Yup, definitely who I wanted to see. Now granted, you were prettier before, but I'm not that shallow."

The Doctor takes a shuddering breath. Oh, Jack. _If you could distil and sell that, you'd make a fortune in feel-good drugs._ "Do you know how long?" How long they'll have, here, together. It's as much as he dares ask. They can't talk about anything that might matter, of course; they can't afford to.

There's still a Toclafane hovering nearby.

Now it's Jack's turn to grimace. "Not a clue." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Nothing we can do about that anyway. Let's just get some rest."

"Easier said than done." The Doctor gestures weakly at himself.

"Come on." Jack reaches out, helps him out of the wheelchair, onto the camp bed. The bed dips as he sits, then lies down with the Doctor, warm and human and alive.

It wakes something in the Doctor. "Bet this is a dream come true for you," he quips, and is surprised to find he sounds almost like himself.

"Yeah." Jack is spooned behind him, but the Doctor can _hear_ the grin. "Well, you looked a bit different in my dreams." From anyone else, this would be horribly tactless. From Jack, it's just an observation.

The Doctor smiles. The Master will find out about this, of course, and it won't be pleasant, but it's worth it. It's only a small moment out of time, but it's worth it.

Jack holds him close, and they rest.


End file.
